Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
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To Amanda undressing her.
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 | Amanda |  |
To Amanda undressing her.
Thy hood's pull'd off, nay then I'm dead and gone,
Prethie, Amanda, put thy night-coif on.
I see a thousand am'rous Cupids there.
Which lie in Ambush, lurking in thy haire;
Look with what haste within those locks of thine,
They string their bowes to shoot these eyes of mine?
Look how that little blinde rogue there with his dart,
Stands aiming and layes level at my heart?
The symptomes of my wounds, Amanda, see,
Oh I bleed inwards, prethie pitty me.
I am all stuck with arrowes which are shot
So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot
About me free, each distinct atome smarts
By't selfe, pierc't with a thousand thousand darts;
And as a man with pangs surpriz'd by death
Struggles for life to keep his parting breath;
My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within
My body earne to graspe and reach thee in;
How could I knit and weave eternally,
And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie?]
Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love,
Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove
What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost
Of this nights vision shall for ever boast.
Prethie, Amanda, put thy night-coif on.
I see a thousand am'rous Cupids there.
35
Look with what haste within those locks of thine,
They string their bowes to shoot these eyes of mine?
Look how that little blinde rogue there with his dart,
Stands aiming and layes level at my heart?
The symptomes of my wounds, Amanda, see,
Oh I bleed inwards, prethie pitty me.
I am all stuck with arrowes which are shot
So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot
About me free, each distinct atome smarts
By't selfe, pierc't with a thousand thousand darts;
And as a man with pangs surpriz'd by death
Struggles for life to keep his parting breath;
My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within
My body earne to graspe and reach thee in;
How could I knit and weave eternally,
And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie?]
Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love,
Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove
What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost
Of this nights vision shall for ever boast.
Kill me, my boyes, 'tis mercy to be kill'd
With love; who would not die in such a field
Of damask rose, slain by her lilie hand?
Dart me to death, you pretty b yes, that stand
Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send,
Tell me, I am Amanda's bosome-friend.
With love; who would not die in such a field
Of damask rose, slain by her lilie hand?
Dart me to death, you pretty b yes, that stand
Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send,
Tell me, I am Amanda's bosome-friend.
| Amanda | |